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Noir

I’ve always had a fascination with the dialogue of mystery crime novels and 1930s detective dramas….the way they describe the world around them by utilization of common knowledge and humor to forge vibrant imagery with seemingly little effort. Then they quench the story with twists and hang ups, effectively teetering you on the precipice of suspense over laughter. It is a very difficult method of writing…at least I find it to be, so my respect for those that can populate entire volumes of what is essentially an atlas of human sensory relation….well it is quite titanic indeed. Having said that I am offing you a chance to peer at an ungodly abomination a passionate attempt to recreate such cerebral splendor. It is essentially the same backdrop as the previous poems, but with an altered delivery….kinda serves as a second point: how one story can be told many times in different ways….whether or not that’s a good thing remains to be seen(it has nearly destroyed originality in the film industry). Moving on….This is the equivalent to the first half of the story. Criticism welcome,but please be gentle…it’s my first time. I have a recording of this, a rendition as recorded by some raspy voiced vagabond, but I’m not so certain that it fits the bill…so as for now I am excluding the reading from the post.

The world:

The wind was ever-present in that desolate doom…yet change never blew in, only cold…stomach turning cold, dancing across the world like naivety on prom-night. I was a lost camper delving deeper in the woods with every step, misguided and confused by the flurry of regret laying its icy fingers on my skin. At least that’s what it felt like, living in this realm of loss and injustice, where the only authority is despondency laced with apathetic tedium. The overpowering urge to choke the life out of it only quelled by a double on the rocks, the 4 finger salute. fog hung heavy in the air, reminded you that you’re a prisoner, this big bad world is C-block..and there’s no yard time coming until years off. You walk the realm, you get used to it, you start to think “hell, this aint so bad. got a bottle of Jim and a box of Reds, what more could I ask for?”. You start to admire the scum built up on what was once your dreams…something that used to be palatial now so easily coated with corruption and greed. I’d walk, the blocks turning into chapters of a novel written in my head, one that so easily points out the flaws but does little to offer suggestion to sway it otherwise…wrap it in fabric and title it “Endless Waltz” and we got a New York Times best seller just waiting to be sold. But lets face it I didn’t want to change the world, no I wanted it to just leave me alone, that’s why I carried a bottle that good ol’ memory eraser. It was the ark and all of my demons were the animals it would Shepard as I flooded my world with liquid courage. Anyone could see it, all you had to do was look me in the eyes and pick out the smudge where my soul used to be, I was lost…and I wasn’t sending any distress calls so find my way back, I was home. Mornings were set on repeat: roll out into hell, put on a smile and lie your way thru the lethargy like some olden construct of a mage…as a golem just out to the bidding. After successfully navigating the bullshit like some gubernatorial conjuration of Magellan, you’d be free to set port in whichever bottle sheltered you from the storm. A few celebratory shots of hobo’s gold to reign in your success, and you were on your way to forgetting that you’re not something less intrepid than saturated. Time flows like snow in the forest, it builds up on your branches, weighing you down…breaking small sections of you at a time…just enough for others not to notice, and after countless blizzards when you’re about ready to be felled….you just stagger to the bar, put up a 10-spot, and lay down more roots.